2 Hearts, 2 Minds, 1 Team, Brothers
by Nimthiriel Eruhin
Summary: A collection of Sherlock drabbles. You can expect angst, h/c, fluff, crack, gen, whatever comes to mind. T for anything I might do, ratings will be at the beginning of each chapter. The title is the best acronym I could come up with for 221B, it's lame and reminiscent of preteens, I know. Please R&R! No slash, profanity, sex, or gore. Art by reapersun.
1. Sometimes You Just Need a Hug

_**A/N:** Hello all! I started this before I watched Sign of Three, and finished it the day after. I hope the tone stays the same. Somebody PM me and we can cry about it together. Just a couple more days of being off-hiatus. I don't what I'll do. For anyone who saw my Lost in Paradise thing, I'm sorry. I took it down. That was so bad. It was past midnight and I was crying, okay?!_

_Anyway. I wanted a fic where Sherlock learned hugs were good. It ended up being a bit more than that, I think. I like it. I might fix it up a bit later. Darkest thing I've ever wrote (LIP aside), rather liked it actually... :)_

_And this is the first entry in my series of Sherlock drabbles! I've been talking about starting one of these for a while, and I finally did it. Stay tuned, I've got tons of ficlet prompts I want to try._

_**WARNING: This story has a lot of blood and some slightly graphic descriptions. **_

_Enjoy, and don't forget to leave me a review and tell me what you think!_

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><p>After a lifetime of being told he was 'different', in varying degrees of affection or hatred, Sherlock didn't assume he needed the things all the 'normal' people did. But once again, John Hamish Watson changed everything, corrupting all of Sherlock's data, forcing him to reach new conclusions. It was inconvenient to be proved wrong, but for some reason Sherlock relished it, in those cases. Very, very few people had ever proved him wrong in his life, and the small army doctor kept on surprising him, his unexplored depths beckoning to Sherlock's curious nature.<p>

Sherlock rose coughing and gasping from the kitchen table where he had been pinned, blood covering his hands. The door burst open with a metallic screech, admitting a stream of Scotland Yard's finest, guns extended. But the weapons were soon lowered, upon seeing there was no need. On the floor at Sherlock's feet was a man, his eyes glazed over in death, his hands clutched around a knife that was embedded in his jugular vein.

"Sherlock! You okay?" exclaimed John, running to the consulting detective's aid. The taller man waved him away, trying not to place his bloodied fingers on anything, thus spreading the thick liquid. He eventually got his breath back, and by then the paramedics arrived, who were also unneeded. Sherlock was uninjured, and the criminal and his latest victim were beyond help or harm. The poor woman lay not very far away, her throat cut and face contorted in terror. They had been too late.

"You killed them?" asked a wide-eyed Sergeant Donovan, looking between Sherlock's stained hands and the pair of people lying in a dark pool.

"The serial killer, in self-defense," retorted Sherlock.

_His mind made him relive the moment, when his vision was going fuzzy, the malicious face above him, and thumbs pressing his trachea shut. He had blindly reached for a weapon on the counter next to him, and his fingers found the butcher's blade. The door was trembling under assault from the detectives on the other side, but Sherlock had no clue if they would get there in time. In a kill-or-be-killed moment, he plunged the knife into his assailant's neck, his expression fierce and dark. The man had begun making the most awful, haunting choking sounds, his blood spurting out of the entry point and covering Sherlock's hand and dripped onto his clothes. Before he could be contaminated further, Sherlock shoved him off, leaving his opponent to convulse horrifically on the floor before going still forever._

Donovan's eyes narrowed. "Sure. And you couldn't wait five more seconds for us? Instead you had to go and murder him, you psychopath!" she spat acerbically.

"He was strangling me! And I prefer 'sociopath!'" growled Sherlock, ignoring John's warning look.

"No wonder. We all want to," she said scathingly before turning and doing whatever pointless stupid things someone on her level of idiocy did.

"What happened?" asked Lestrade, walking over with a not-amused look, brushing past Donovan.

"I could ask the same thing of you, Lestrade," Sherlock said sharply. "What took so long?"

Lestrade scowled. "Don't give me any of that, Sherlock. I can arrest you if I so pleased." Sherlock gave the inspector a ferocious glare, which was ignored. "If you hadn't run off without telling any of us where you were going, this wouldn't have happened."

"I was trying to save her!" he said loudly, throwing an arm toward the pale corpse across the room.

"Yeah, you see how that turned out," replied Lestrade, who clearly didn't have any patience to spare at the moment, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock went silent, dangerously so.

"Tell me. What happened." Lestrade said after a pause, crossing his arms.

"It was him or me. I chose me." Sherlock snapped, and began to make a beeline for the door, shoving aside anyone in his way. It seemed like everyone in the room was yelling at him, to stay or to go, to speak or be silent. Sherlock needed silence. He didn't miss the way everyone looked at him, with the incriminating red sheen on his hands and clothes. The strange psychopath had been found in a room with two bodies. No one was going to forget about this any time soon.

"Aren't we going to arrest him?" he heard some woman ask before he slammed the door behind him.

It didn't matter what they thought, they were all idiots.

He eventually made it back to open air. At least, relatively. London never had the cleanest of atmospheres.

Sherlock had no idea where he was going. He wasn't likely to get a cab in this state. 221B didn't sound inviting, aside from the shower. But he needed to get out of these clothes. So, he walked all the way home, and got out his key and opened pushed the door open roughly. Thankfully by that point the blood had dried, so it didn't spread. Mrs. Hudson emerged, and began to give Sherlock a bright greeting before gasping in shock.

"Sherlock! What on earth-"

"Everything's fine." Sherlock ground out before stomping up the stairs, not trusting himself to say anything else.

He went straight to the shower, throwing each article of clothing off with as loud a sound as he could make, leaving it all in a haphazard pile in the hall. Then he scrubbed himself within an inch of his life, making his eyes blur with pain. Dressed in his most skin-friendly clothing, he snatched his violin off the couch and strode to the window, sitting in front of it.

Then started grinding the bow on the strings. Just sawing away like a madman, producing an unholy screech that filled the air, making it electric.

Sherlock was not okay. He was sad, he was angry, he was hurt, he was guilty, he was lonely.

He couldn't escape the truth that the blood of both the man and woman were on his head. He'd been too slow in solving the case, and too eager to take life. Sherlock was accustomed to death - his line of work brought him in close association with it. But he'd never killed someone with his own hands the way he had today. Never physically took someone's life. Though his skin was pink from being vigourously exfoliated, he couldn't seem to wash away the bloodstains. Sherlock was drowning in it, in the burden of responsibility and guilt that he swore he would carry to his last breath.

_Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing._

Not a hero, not a villain, a sad mix of the two, that's what he was. He'd failed before, but the woman's terrified expression was burned into his retinas, probably forever. Right along with the image of Soo Lin Yao, with a bullet through her pretty head. The price of being known to be a genius is when you're wrong.

Failure was so... crushing. Final. Sherlock told everyone he didn't care, didn't care about lives or about people, just puzzles. But he was also a very good liar. Just like how he told everyone he didn't care what anyone thought. To a degree, it was true. He cared a great deal less than most people. It still didn't protect him from the slap in the face he felt every time he was assumed to be a murderer.

Mrs. Hudson burst in, and snatched the violin from his hands with uncharacteristic ferocity.

"Sherlock! People are threatening to call the police!" she scolded harshly.

"Let them." Sherlock retorted sulkily to her retreating back. He wouldn't get his violin back for a week, unless John moved himself to use those disarming eyes on the venerable landlady. But considering the nasty way Sherlock was acting, it was unlikely. John had a strong (and strange) sense of justice.

He remained there, staring moodily out the window, the dark cloud of his thoughts almost visible around him.

After the sun went down, Sherlock heard the door open. He didn't turn around.

"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock ignored him, too upset to talk without saying something he'd regret. There were a series of sounds, John putting things down and making tea and making a bunch of unnecessary _noise_.

"Would you _cut that out_?!" Sherlock said sharply. He was grimly fascinated by his own anger.

"What?" John asked, bewildered. Such an idiot, couldn't he see Sherlock was trying to pout? When Sherlock didn't reply, John continued whatever he was doing. There were muted clinks, he was stirring sugar into the tea in the cup. Each high-pitched sound drove Sherlock closer to the edge.

Clink.

Sherlock slapped his hands over his ears.

C-clink.

He ground his teeth, trying to stay sane.

Clink.

Sherlock self-restraint snapped in two.

"_**STOP**_!" he yelled rabidly, gripping his curls and pulling on them hard enough to make tears sting his eyes.

"What is your problem, Sherlock?" snapped an irritated army doctor. Sherlock could feel his bristling temper from across the room.

"Would you stop making so much _noise_! You're driving me _mad_!" The words were spoken with such poison it was withering.

There was a snort, and then it started again. The clink-clink-clink of metal against china. How long did it take to stir in sugar, anyway?!

"**_JOHN_**!" Sherlock yelled, and turned and threw a book at his friend's back.

He was facing the window again when he heard the semi-hollow thud of the book against a ribcage, and then a dull clatter when it fell to the ground. He winced but said nothing, horrified at his own outburst. And yet he was still blazing mad. John's very presence contaminated the air with stupidity, he was like a speedbump to Sherlock's troubled mind, keeping it from thinking the dark thoughts he wanted it to.

He hung his head, ashamed of himself and his childish ways. Now John would be angry with him too, just like everyone else in the whole stupid world. He heard approaching footsteps, and stiffened, ready for a row.

"Go away." Sherlock snapped, dreading what John would have to say to him.

There was no response. Sherlock could almost writhe in suspense, his heart high on adrenaline. He was very afraid. John had a mild disposition, but when he got angry, it was frightening.

Eventually, John sat next to him, and placed a steaming cup of tea in front of Sherlock. The consulting detective started in surprise, looking at his friend. John just looked quietly out the window, sipping his tea. One half of Sherlock's brain rebelled, he didn't need anyone or anything, let alone a cup of tea. The rest of it was jaded and defeated, and in the end he picked up the cup and sipped it slightly. It was the perfect temperature, as always.

He was sure that John would start talking, and drive him up a wall with pointless words - about events, about Sherlock, or trying to get Sherlock to talk. But the flat remained silent. Sherlock drank in the comfortable stillness, John's slightly huddled form next to him bringing him comfort. It was exactly what he needed. How John continued to know what that was, Sherlock didn't know. It was almost supernatural. The quiet companionship continued a while longer before it was broken by Sherlock's low timbre.

"Thank you." His hands shook with sincerity, a unique weakness of his.

"Quite right," John said drily, sipping his tea again.

There was a longer stretch of silence, during which time Sherlock's initial distress melted away at the heat of the affection blazing next to him. The ash blond hair, the wrinkly (reminiscent of a daschund puppy) forehead apparently held unfathomable mysteries beneath it, definitely the greatest puzzle Sherlock had ever encountered in his life. Every time Sherlock was sure he had pushed too far, John came springing back, and burrowed deeper in Sherlock's self-imposed isolation. It was - unprecedented.

"I've killed men," said John quietly. Sherlock blinked in surprise, not at the revelation - John _had_ been a soldier, after all - but at the insight. How had John know what had upset him?

"And I've failed to save people. Good people," John continued, his eyes becoming glassy as he relived the memory. Also not shocking - he was a doctor too, of course he would have lost patients. But it had never occurred to Sherlock before how similar their burden was.

"But you can't hold on to it forever. You have to let it go, and learn from it," John said, making eye contact with Sherlock for the first time in the conversation.

Sherlock swallowed and looked out the window.

"When did I sign up for a therapy session?" he said softly with sarcasm lacing his voice, but there was no bite in it.

"Well after an incident like that, most people would be in shock, so you're doing fine," John replied with that pawky humour of his, and drained the last of his tea.

It was impossible to let go, of course. But he would try. Sherlock told himself it wasn't his fault, he did his best, he had no choice. It was like trying to break out of prison bars with a nail filer. Tiring, discouraging, and pointless.

Suddenly an arm snaked around Sherlock's shoulder, making him jerk in shock for the second time that evening.

"Come here, you great sod," said John affectionately, and pulled Sherlock in for a not-at-all-awkward side hug.

"What - what is this? Why-" Sherlock blurted rapidly, blinking in shock, his body stiff.

"Just go with it," John said firmly, cutting him off. "It's called a hug, genius."

Sherlock didn't need hugs, hugs were for ordinary people who couldn't sort out their problems without some happy hormones to push them along. He was a sociopath. Sociopaths didn't embrace. He said as much out loud.

John let his head fall on Sherlock's shoulder, the tips of the hair on top of his head brushing Sherlock's neck.

Sociopaths certainly didn't 'cuddle.'

But the gesture set off fireworks in Sherlock's head. Affectionate physical contact was so amazing, he had forgotten. He sank into the embrace, comfortable. John gave good hugs. Not those awkward things where you stand wishing they would let go, and all you can think about is how there's hair in your face and one particular set of muscles is burning from holding the same position for long. No, this was different.

Better.

He felt better. Stupid hormones, they were affecting him. But oh, it felt so good, he was starved for it. The body's strange remedies for distress were truly bizarre. He rested his head on top of John's, feeling the bundle of hair fibres between their skulls rustle with slight movement.

"This is good." Sherlock mumbled, filing it under 'things to be sorted later'.

"You think?" John threw back, and Sherlock could feel him smiling.

"Should I - do anything?" Sherlock asked tentatively, not wanting to mess it up.

"You're doing great." John said encouragingly.

"Am I?" Sherlock asked in a high pitch, taken aback.

"Yep." John answered matter-of-factly.

"I've always been a quick learner," Sherlock threw in proudly.

"Stop talking, you'll ruin it," John said drily, smile gone.

"Okay." Sherlock meekly replied, settling into the comfortable silence.

Part of Sherlock's brain wondered if this was real. It was so incredible. He needed to experiment in this area more, definitely. He could feel affection welling up in his heart, unbidden. It was oh-so-dangerous for him to invest himself. Detrimental to his work. But if this was friendship, he decided he rather liked it.

Perhaps it was worth the risk.


	2. A Femme Fatale

_**A/N:** Okay, so here we have another nice fic. I don't think there's anything I need to warn you about, so dig in!_

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><p>"Hey, Sherlock." John said as his friend walked in the room. It was about noon, and sunlight invaded the flat that had been as dark as the stormy sky for the last few days.<p>

"Mmm?" Sherlock said, still drowsy, as he rubbed his hair with his hand and curled up in his chair. What he wouldn't give for a cigarette.

"I've a bit of a mystery for you, if you want to try and clear it up," replied John hesitantly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows curiously. "I'm not going to look for your keys again, if that's what you were going to ask." he said drily.

"Stuff it. I was wondering if-" John bit off, afraid how this would sound.

"Come then, spit it out," Sherlock said as he took a newspaper off the floor and opened it with a pop.

"If you could find a woman for me," he said quickly. Sherlock barked a laugh.

"It must be bad if you're turning to a detective to find you a match," he said, still cackling. "You might have more luck with an online dating site as a venue instead of a sociopath."

"Oh for the love of-" John started angrily, then bit off the rest of his sentence. "I meant a specific one, you git."

"Oh, well by all means proceed then," Sherlock said impishly as he put down the newspaper, then steepling his fingers and making a mock expression of concentration.

John made a mental note to kill him later. Then he started to tell his story, reliving it in his mind's eye as he gave Sherlock a slightly more condensed version.

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><p><em>"Oh, sorry!" John said quickly. "Let me help you with that," he added, ears burning as he reached down to pick up the oranges and apples scattered on the sidewalk. The woman bent down also, and gathered the runaway fruit into her arm. They stood at the same time, and John made a sheepish expression. He tried not to stare, she was <em>wow_ beautiful, even being wrapped up in loose flowing clothes and a colourful green veil showing only her eyes._

_"Looks like I broke your bag," he said apologetically, holding up the torn plastic Tesco's bag. _

_"It is fine," said the mysterious woman in her native Arabian accent. John awkwardly transferred the produce in his arms to hers, and she used both of her arms to hold it all._

_"I should really look where I'm going," John said awkwardly, internally kicking himself for being so clumsy. He hadn't had time to react when she was suddenly in his path, and he collided with her grocery bag swinging by here side, causing an explosion of red and orange._

_"I told you, it is nothing," she said warmly, looking at him with big brown eyes. John swallowed, a warmth flaring in his chest._

_"Would you - would it be possible - " John stuttered, before smiling widely, committing himself. "Would you like to have dinner with me?" he asked smoothly. "Not fruit, of course," he said with a gesture to the items named, making both of them laugh._

_She seemed unsure, so John pressed a little harder._

_"Think of it as an apology for being such a clout," he said urgingly, asking with his eyes._

_She nodded in consent, smile creases appearing around her eyes. "Alright." she said, and raised an eyebrow._

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><p>"Please tell me it gets better," Sherlock interrupted caustically, throwing his head back with a moan. "I thought I was being asked to solve a mystery, not suffer through a mawkish love story."<p>

"Shut up and listen. I'm giving you the whole story and letting you decide which parts are important. I thought you liked that," John said, annoyed.

"Not when I'm forced to listen to romantic drivel," Sherlock complained, throwing his hands up in the air dramatically.

"Just try not to die of boredom, I'm not finished," John said before continuing with his tale.

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><p><em>They walked to Baker Street, since it wasn't very far. She had agreed to leave her produce at the flat while they dined, to be retrieved later. As they approached the door, she let out a small, delicate gasp. <em>

_"221B Baker Street? Are you that famous detective?" she asked, awe in her voice. John reflexively stiffened, but let it go immediately and chuckled._

_"No, that's my flatmate," he said, emphasis on _flatmate_. She 'oh'ed._

_"I didn't think so. I hear Sherlock Holmes is a handsome man," she said solemnly. John began forming a low opinion of the decorum in the Middle East when she suddenly laughed._

_"It was a joke," she said teasingly, and the tense feeling fell away, leaving John room to grin as he unlocked the door. _

_They transferred the produce to Mrs. Hudson, who instantly understood what was up and winked before disappearing, closing the door behind her._

_John and his mysterious Arabian woman took a cab to a nearby Mediterranean restaurant, and were quickly seated at a small round table opposite each other._

_"So, do you have a name to go with that face?" John asked casually, waiting for someone to come and take their order._

_"Aaliyah Hannachi," she said, almost challengingly. "And you?" she asked, raising her eyebrows playfully._

_"John Watson," replied the owner of the name with pride. "What brings you to England?" he asked pleasantly._

_"My family moved here a few years ago," she said, her words dripping with Arabian flavour. "I am studying to become a teacher," she said brightly, with a contagious enthusiasm._

_"That's lovely," John said, applying the compliment in her general direction as well as her choice of study._

_The night passed quickly, in various small talk and little things. She told him about her native country a bit, and he tried to explain pop culture (she was particularly fixated by Gangnam Style) and whatever else she was curious about. Soon the courses were eaten, but John was reluctant to go. _

_"Do you have any way I can contact you?" he asked as they rose from the table._

_"I can give you my address," she said mildly._

_"I'll take you there," John immediately offered, drawing another smile from Aaliyah._

_After picking up her oranges and apples from Mrs. Hudson, they drove to the address she had named._

_"Thank you. It was lovely," she said, and John could imagine the wide smile hiding under her veil._

_"We need to do that again," John said promisingly._

_Then they parted ways, and John walked with an extra spring in his step as he walked to the main road to get himself a cab._

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><p>"That's it?!" Sherlock exclaimed, a disbelieving expression on his face. "I cannot believe you put me through all that for nothing," he said bitterly.<p>

"Hold on!" John snapped. "When I stopped by today, the owner of the complex said he'd never had anyone by that name staying there. He didn't recognize her description. Said he'd never had an Arabian stay there, ever," John said, frowning. "And I can't find record of anyone named Aaliyah Hannachi anywhere," he said, finishing his story.

Sherlock made no move, just moved his eyes lazily to the ceiling.

"Boring," he muttered accusingly. John felt annoyance flare in his chest.

"Sherlock, please! I want to know what's going on, and I want you to help me!" he said, close to losing his patience. She had been lovely, but her disappearance, to be frank, creeped him out. He wanted to know how, and why.

"Why would anyone create a false identity to go on a date with me and then disappear? It makes no sense. There hasn't been a threat, nothing strange. It's not like we talked about anything confidential. And I never even touched her, so it's not like that either. Why and how? What if she's in danger?"

But Sherlock refused to be interested.

"If you're so desperate to find this woman, why don't you look for her yourself?" Sherlock said with a dismissive gesture. "I can't be bothered with this," he said haughtily.

John sighed a long suffering sigh. "Fine," he snapped. "I'll leave you to your moping then," he said, and left, going up to his room. Sherlock lingered in the silence awhile, and then slowly rose and walked to his room. As he gathered up a few things, he reminisced a conversation he'd had with John last month.

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><p><em>"You wouldn't understand, Sherlock. I think that's clear enough by now," John said, as he was putting on his shoes to go on a date. <em>

_"No, I wouldn't," Sherlock said cuttingly, before a thoughtful expression came over his face._

_"What is it even like? It must be dreadfully dull," he said, drawing an alarmed look from John._

_"So now I've got you wondering what's it like to be on a date," he said fearfully. "I pity the victim you decide to use as part of your experiment," he said wryly before grabbing his coat and leaving._

_"Indeed," Sherlock murmured slowly._

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><p>Sherlock got out a small cardboard box and started to place items in it, as he mentally relived another exchange between him and the army doctor a couple of weeks ago.<p>

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><p><em>"Don't even deny it John. You would never have a clue," Sherlock said smugly as he heated a chemical compound over his Bunsen burner.<em>

_John laughed sarcastically. "I'd recognize you in an instant, you sod. For once, you're not as good as you think you are," he said with an evil smile._

_"Want to bet?" Sherlock shot back, raising his chin challengingly._

_"I don't need to. I already know. I've seen all your disguises, and with a face like that, there's no way I'd miss you, " John said with a similarly tilted face._

_"We'll see about that," retorted the detective, and poured his concoction on top of a hand lying on a plate._

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><p>Sherlock chuckled, and looked at the contents of the box one last time before closing it and sliding it under his bed.<p>

A small contacts case, one orange and apple, and a bright green veil.

Take that, John.

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><p><em><strong>AN:** Yep yep yep I did that. I just did that and I might regret it later. But the idea came to me (after seeing that piece of art by reapersun... ACD reading a list of kink memes) and I couldn't stop laughing, so here we are lovelies. In case anyone was wondering, this is absolutely not slash. Just a bit of fun. :P I always have a Straight!John and an Asexual!Sherlock. Although I guess anything is slash when you have the gay goggles on._

_Leave me a review, and feel free to tear me apart for this... What was I thinking..._


	3. Bachelors

_**A/N:** Yes, hello lovelies. This occurred to me and I had to write it. No content to warn you about, other than a few sentences that might be vaguely offensive to germophobes. Sorry._

_Enjoy! I'd love to hear your thoughts! (And if you leave a review, tell me to get off my lazy butt and write my Between the Lines fic. Because I need to and I haven't. Thanks a ton, my f(ol)lowers.)_

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><p>Sherlock wasn't a germophobe.<p>

Well, he certainly didn't want anybody to vomit on him or anything, but he was fine with the level of microorganisms he normally came in contact with. He avoided physical contact usually on a claim of personal comfort, not necessarily the fear of the transfer of a pathogen. Really, if those people were truly paranoid of germs, if those people refused to eat food that had been touched, if they had to disinfect after every handshake, Sherlock failed to see how those people could ever... reproduce. Maybe they aren't so paranoid after all. Sherlock had even dumpster dived before. Honestly, germophobes might be a lot less finicky if they were starving to death. Or at least in Sherlock's opinion.

But he still had boundaries.

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><p>John was used to having to touch, to a level most people would be uncomfortable with.<p>

After all, he was an army doctor. That meant having to sleep in close quarters, take showers in less than ideal privacy conditions. It meant having to perform surgery on the battlefield, having to probe injuries and bandage them, no matter where on the patient's person they might fall. It was part of the job. He'd long since learned to deal with it, to stop being uncomfortable with it.

But he still had boundaries.

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><p><em>What is it about Tuesdays that's always so miserable?<em> John wondered to himself as he dragged himself in through the door.

Everyone complained about Mondays, and John had never seen the point of that. On Monday, you're stocked up on energy from the weekend, no problem. And by Sunday, John was usually chafing to work instead of lying around. (Or he used to, before he formed a bizarre partnership with one Sherlock Holmes and threw his schedule into a chaotic, uncertain mystery.) But Tuesdays... Tuesdays are awful because then you're tired from Monday, and you've still got the majority of the week ahead of you.

Tuesdays were John's least favourite days. Too bad a whole seventh of his life would be Tuesdays.

The flat was dark and silent, leading John to believe that everyone had gone to bed. He took off his coat and hung it (something Sherlock often neglected to do, and the coat thrown on the sofa testified to that) then shuffled into the kitchen, feeling like a late night snack was in order. And a drink. He was parched.

There was a half-eaten box of chocolate biscuits on the counter, the John happily dug into those while he looked for a supplement to his small repast. There was a jar of pickles in the fridge (oh, those are fingers...) and a container of microwavable mashed potatoes in a cabinet. Definite no to both. He felt too tired to actually cook anything.

After the fourth biscuit, he realized the sugar was leaving a strong taste in his mouth and he needed a drink. Well, there was a half-empty quart of milk in the fridge. He looked around for a cup but there wasn't a clean one anywhere. They were all piled in the sink, along with an assortment of other dishes that went up to the faucet. John audibly moaned. There were few things that irritated him more than when Sherlock did that.

The man didn't seem to understand that it was literally _impossible_ to do the dishes when _the faucet is buried underneath them._

Of course, John could always ask (read: coerce) Sherlock to do it, but that would almost definitely lead to a bizarre experiment on dish soap or something.

No cup, then. No way John was going to deal with that catastrophe right now.

But he wanted milk...

John pulled out the milk and looked around. Still no sign of life.

He raised the milk and drank straight out of the carton. No one had to know.

"Do you do that often?"

John spat out the milk and almost dropped the carton. He turned, dripping milk, to find Sherlock standing motionless in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Ah... I was..." John felt himself get hot with embarrassment, and put the carton back in the fridge.

Without another word, Sherlock turned and disappeared down the hall.

John stood frozen, wondering if he had just caused a week-long sulk.

There was the sound of running water from the bathroom, and - scrubbing?

A quick walk to the open door, and John peeked in to find Sherlock vigourously brushing his teeth.

There was a garbled sentence. John stepped closer, trying to make sense of teh esemingly disconnected sounds.

"What's that?" he asked.

Sherlock took the toothbrush out of his mouth long enough to emphatically tell John, "I do too."

John blanched.

"Oh, please tell me you're joking," John begged.

Sherlock continued to scrub his teeth until his gums bled.

John took up the mouthwash and gurgled repeatedly until Sherlock finally straightened. John handed him the mouthwash and moved to the vacated sink to take up his own toothbrush.

They cycled through that two more times before they were satisfied.

Boundaries.

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><p><em><strong>AN:** 1) I have had someone walk in on me while I was drinking out of a milk carton, and let me tell you, it was one of the most terrifying experiences in my whole freaking life and I darn near choked on milk. The jolt of shock and guilt haunts my nightmares to this day. And you know what they did? Laughed. And pretended like it didn't happen. Bless you, you know who you are, if you're reading this (which I almost certainly know you're not, but oh well)._

_2) I also cannot stand it when people pile dishes up to the faucet. How the heck can I clean the dishes if you do that. Don't do that._

_Also, I really meant to have more serious things to write about, but so far all I've done is fluff. Sorry. And I couldn't bring myself to write for BTL, so I sorta chickened out and wrote this fic instead. Oh well._


	4. Solitude With Friends

_**A/N:** Hello dearies! Once again I had no motivation to write BTL, so I did this instead. It came into my head and I had to do it. To be fair, there is a very similar fic by the brilliant Cumberbatch Critter, and this was sort of modeled off that. This is the longest thing I've ever written (in one chapter), almost 6,000 words, holy crud! This fic is a sort of dumping ground for several ideas. It's... yeah._

_I was squealing with cute while I was writing it. Sad life is sad. Lots of Archie fluff with Sherlock._

_Very brief mentions of rape, drugs, and alcohol. That makes it sound way worse than it is. It's not. Oh well._

_Enjoy, dearies!_

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><p>Sherlock was used to being alone.<p>

More than most people, he knew what loneliness was like. It was mainly due the fact that he segregated himself from everyone and everything, and he was the poster child for self-isolation. Not like there was a horrible tragic story behind that. He'd had a loving family and hadn't been raped or abused as a child, nothing like that. It just sort of - happened. He'd slowly faded from everybody, choice by choice to be silent and strong, time after time of being too ashamed of his feelings to expose himself, until one day no one really knew who he was or what was really going on inside his head. It didn't bother him all that much, actually; he liked the mystery, he liked the fact that no one took for granted that they understood what he was feeling, as if they owned him. Most days, anyway.

Today wasn't one of those days.

He sipped his morning tea, just like he had the morning before. Since then, however, so much had happened that he didn't feel like this was even the same room, like he was even quite the same person. His stomach still clenched at the memory of having to stand up and speak in front of people the way he had. Not like he was afraid to speak in public, he yelled at the crowds of detectives at NSY often enough. No, that was different.

Because this time it mattered. Because it was John's wedding day, and he didn't want to mess this up; he didn't know how to deliver a speech that was appropriate in that setting. He decided he wanted the speech to still be _him_, yet somehow satisfy the need for sentiment that the audience had. All in all, he thought he had succeeded, and no one had died.

Many people probably thought Sherlock considered the attempted murder a bonus, an unexpected joy. Not so.

He'd been thrilled, admittedly, while in the heat of solving the crime, when all the elements and aspects suddenly swelled and coalesced into a screaming understanding, pumping him full of adrenaline and triumph. But as they were running to Major Sholto's room, the mantra of 'Not today not today not today' had been practically screaming in his head.

_Not at John's wedding!_

And now John and Mary were off on their honeymoon, and Sherlock felt a bit - deflated. He knew they had full intentions of 'keeping in touch' (whenever those words are spoken, never expect to hear from that person again - that was Sherlock's personal experience), but Mrs. Hudson had been right. Marriage changed things. They might stop by a couple times a month, then it would dwindle to once every few months. Then they might see each other on holidays (horrifying in itself), then they would fade from each other's lives forever.

Inevitable, that's what it was.

But, he'd still vowed to be there for them. John had a way of finding trouble, just as much as him. He'd run into some danger eventually, and Sherlock would be there. He would. It might not be ideal, but it was something.

It was enough for Sherlock.

He was suddenly pulled from his thoughts when the door opened, with a smiling Mrs. Hudson in the hallway.

"You have a visitor!" she announced in a high pitched, almost babying voice. Sherlock scowled, he didn't want any visitors now. And why did her voice sound like that? He understood when she moved aside, letting a little boy run into the room.

"Mr. Holmes!" Archie exclaimed, standing there beaming. Sherlock put aside his half-drunk and now lukewarm cup of tea, and looked at Archie calmly.

"Hello Archie. What brings you here?" he asked, neither happy or unhappy to see the boy.

"Headless nuns," the child said, almost wriggling with excitement. Sherlock sighed, though not altogether unhappily.

"Of course. You solved the case, after all," he said, and Mrs. Hudson disappeared from the door as Sherlock rose and went over to (one of) his laptop(s) an flipped open the lid.

After a few minutes of clicking through pictures of a decapitated Sister-something-or-other, (that case had been interesting, actually; another nun and priest had conspired to take advantage of an old treasure legend, and had actually hidden a fake in an ancient part of the church. He and John had solved it by noticing dust and mud patterns, and disproving certain alibis because another priest had been carrying the phone... Too bad John never wrote that one up), Sherlock sat back, once again being pulled into his thoughts, and his face transformed to a morose sort of thoughtfulness.

"Are you sad because your friends have gone away?" Archie asked, and Sherlock's eyes snapped back to the flat from where they had been gazing into the depths of nothingness, to see the boy looking intently at him.

"I'm fine, perfectly fine," Sherlock said, and it was partly true; he wasn't falling apart or anything. Just feeling a bit - melancholy.

"I think you're sad," Archie insisted, but there wasn't any pity in it, which Sherlock appreciated. Just a sort of mild concern, and almost interest.

"A bit," Sherlock admitted, deciding 'why not.'

"I can help," Archie offered, not smiling, just making a proposition.

"Can you?" Sherlock asked, not mocking, but somewhat amused.

"Yeah. I found this video on Youtube that always makes me feel better, it tells you how to not have a bad day," Archie explained conscientiously. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but opened the browser and relinquished control of the device. The boy navigated quickly and efficiently, clearly a child of technology.

"They're American, but I like them anyway," Archie explained, and pulled up a thumbnail from the search, and Sherlock glanced at the title. 'Seven Ways To Turn Your Day Around'. Well, it was straightforward. Most likely a waste of time, but he didn't necessarily mind the company, since he had no cases lined up for today, nor did he have any experiments on his itinerary.

An electronic, bubbly theme song began to play, along with opening credits. Sherlock could tell from the clips that it was a comedy skit channel. The screen then showed a young man - Sherlock quickly deduced him. In college, living at home, athletic. He had hair that reminded Sherlock of his own, and an open countenance and loud voice.

"You know what? Some days you just feel on top of the world. And other days, you're just down in the dumps."

_Wow. Revolutionary_, Sherlock thought sarcastically, but watched respectfully and attentively, seeing Archie's sidelong glances indicating he was watching Sherlock's reaction, and that that reaction was important to him on some level.

"And, it's not fun to be sad! So today, we're going to talk about seven ways to turn your day around."

Sherlock sighed internally and looked at the minute counter. How much of his time was he sacrificing to the false god of children's amusement? _3:26._ Well, could be worse. The amount of times John showed him that clip of a cat falling off a shelf probably lasted longer than twelve minutes.

Big text flashed across the screen (did they think he was blind?).

"Number one: listen to your jam."_ Jam? As in, the condiment that goes on toast?_

_Oh_, he realized, they meant as in songs.

"You scream that jam from the_ rooftops!_" said the young man, jabbing a finger at the screen. Sherlock snorted. Him and rooftops, not a good combo.

"Number two: encourage someone."_ This is a waste of time._

"Next time you're bummed out, just think, 'What would make my day if somebody said it to me?' And then go and say that thing to someone!" _I highly doubt anyone else will be as thrilled as me to learn that there's a triple murder waiting to be solved._

"Number three: clean the house." Boos erupted in the background of the video, echoing Sherlock's pysche. "What?!" Sherlock exclaimed out loud, but Archie shushed him.

"Thing is, no matter how bad of a day you're having, you'll feel way better if you're having that day in a clean environment."

_Right._ Then there was a skit displaying this truth, somewhat unrealistically, in Sherlock's opinion.

"Number four: write it down."_ No. Absolutely not. This is the most horrible advice ever._

"Sometimes it just helps to sort out all your thoughts." _I already know what my thoughts are. Apparently ordinary people are so dull they don't even know the thoughts going through their own head. How appalling._

"Number five: Exercise." _That is _it_. This is nonsense. Scientifically proven, blah blah blah._

"Number six: call up your bestie." Sherlock, despite himself, felt a cold throb in his chest, and sighed aloud, talking over the video momentarily.

"Mary wouldn't be happy if I distracted John while they're on their Se-" he broke off, _'children in the room, Sherlock,_' John scolded from his subconscious - "-honeymoon."

"Number seven: dance it out." Sherlock barked a laugh, though more out of mockery than any other reason. "Sometimes, you just need to dance."_ I wanted to, but I didn't get to,_ the whiny part of Sherlock's brain complained. Then the video went on for what seemed an eternity of extremely bad dancing, and some very interesting special effects. Archie was melting in giggles, and leaning into Sherlock, which didn't particularly bother the consulting detective. But he found no humour in it, because this humour had no subtlety, after true American spirit. Sherlock preferred the subtle, suave, ironic kind.

"This isn't even dancing," Sherlock said drily, but Archie was laughing too hard to respond.

"Wow, I was having a really bad day before I watched this video, but now it's seven times better!" then the camera cropped in super close, and each word appeared in huge font on the screen. "I love life!" Again, Sherlock let out a harsh staccato laugh. "Well, I hope your day's as turned around as mine!" then the young man danced offscreen, and Sherlock waited in silence as there was a sort of commercial, and Archie was still watching intently. Then there was a voice again, announcing, "Next week on Messy Mondays, Jordan's dancing gets out of hand!"

Another skit, with another man (brother) holding an apparent ice pack to his eye. "Dude, I swear, it was an accident!" the other young man, purportedly Jordan, said.

"Well you looked pretty angry when your fist entered my eye! I don't think I ever want to see you again!"

Then Jordan smiled and said, "Well, at least you're halfway there." Alright, this time Sherlock actually laughed.

Archie's whole face lit up with triumph, thrilled to have made the consulting detective laugh. The video was over, finally, and Sherlock closed the browser, in a clear message of 'no more.'

"Well, thank you for coming, Archie," Sherlock said, and began to usher the child toward the door, and was drawing air into his lungs to bellow for Mrs. Hudson when Archie said, "I can't go yet. My mum's still at her appointment," Archie explained, making Sherlock frown, and he tried not to sigh in exasperation.

"What?" Sherlock asked, feeling his patience begin to reach an end.

"She's going to a spa or something. I have to wait here 'till she comes back for me," Archie explained. Sherlock fought the urge to smash his head against the wall. Couldn't he just be left alone in peace?

"Would you like biscuits? Mrs. Hudson has biscuits," Sherlock said with an urging tone, still trying to corral the boy out the door.

"Not really. I want to stay with you," Archie said hopefully, look up at him. Sherlock was unimpressed. Though that pure hero-worship never failed to flatter him, no matter how many times John gave it to him, and this time was no different.

"Go downstairs. Eat biscuits," Sherlock commanded, making the boy's face fall, but he wasn't finished. "Then come back up after."

Archie looked away, grinning. "Okay, Mr. Holmes," he said excitedly, practically running down the stairs. Sherlock sighed the sigh of a weary man and went into his room, closing the door. With any luck, the boy's mother would come back before Archie could eat all the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had picked up yesterday at Sherlock's command (he hadn't eaten a single one. He claimed it was simply a harmless loss of appetite, but he had actually been nervous enough to be a tiny bit nauseous).

Sherlock sat on his bed and stared out the window, and sometimes shifted his gaze to the periodic table chart, or his coat hanging on the door, or to his discarded best man outfit littering the floor that he hadn't bothered to hang up. He didn't feel like doing anything at all, today, actually; mostly just sitting around and staring at things dispassionately. Sometimes he hated the fact that he let himself be friends with anyone. He never had this problem before.

There was a soft tap on the door. "Mr. Holmes?" Archie asked innocently, his voice slightly muffled through the door. Sherlock sighed, and stood.

"Yes?" he asked, cracking open the door.

"You said to come back up," Archie said slowly, giving him an expectant look. There was a pause.

"So I did," Sherlock said, equally measured in his pace of speaking. Another beat.

"You still look sad, Mr. Holmes," Archie said, and still without any coddling in his voice, as if he were commenting on the colour of Sherlock's shirt, which was ironically blue.

"What does it matter if I look sad?" Sherlock asked, and he really meant it. Somehow, it was far easier to communicate with this child than it ever had been with John, who would repeatedly cling to some unspoken code of etiquette or morality that he expected Sherlock to be familiar with. Archie had no such expectations.

"It doesn't. But sometimes it means that you really are sad," Archie explained patiently, as if to someone younger than him, though he had to crane his neck to be able to look Sherlock in the eye.

"And what if I am?" Sherlock asked tonelessly. "You can't make me _not_ sad."

"No," Archie replied after a beat. "But I'll keep you company."

Sherlock felt a small flame kindle in his chest. He opened the door fully, and returned to sitting on his bed. Archie followed.

"Can I?" the boy asked, and Sherlock somehow understood what he was asking, and nodded. The boy climbed onto the bed next to him, a few feet away.

They sat in somewhat companionable silence for a while. Sherlock just stared at the wrinkles in the blazer on the floor, thinking. Archie seemed to get bored, and his gaze roamed the whole room, and when he ran out of room, his curious gaze returned to Sherlock.

"Wanna do something?" Archie asked eagerly. Sherlock sighed, and looked over at the boy.

"Not really." His tone was listless.

"Why not?" Archie asked curiously. Sherlock took the question seriously, and thought about it.

"I suppose," Sherlock said slowly, "because I don't know what to do,"

Archie lit up. "I have an idea!" he announced proudly, smirking.

"Do you?" Sherlock asked, not altogether rudely.

The boy nodded. "The seven things!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No," he said with finality.

"It couldn't hurt, could it?" Archie insisted. "And it's not like your day is going to get any better if you sit here all day."

Point taken. "Fine," Sherlock sighed. "What was the first one?"

Archie thought for a moment, squinting his eyes in concentration, before replying. "Listen to your jam."

"I don't have a jam," Sherlock replied with a 'can we be done now' tone.

"Well we can find you one," Archie said hopefully. Sherlock groaned dramatically.

"Sure," he said, irritated somewhat at this point. Archie asked permission to get Sherlock's laptop, and he received it. He returned quickly, and sat next to Sherlock, using the laptop with ease. Even though he was close, it was not by any means cuddling. Sherlock appreciated that, since he was in no mood to deal with a child in need of tactile affection.

"What kind of music do you like?" Archie asked, squinting up at him.

"Violin," Sherlock replied, not missing a beat.

"_Bor_ing," Archie huffed with a small laugh, and Sherlock grinned quietly, reminded of himself.

"I'm going to show you some _fun_ music," Archie said, and did a quick search and opened the thumbnail. Sherlock sighed for neither the first or the last time that day, but watched the video. He was assaulted with bright colours and - some Asian language he couldn't immediately identify.

"What is this?!" he asked, bewildered.

"It's Korean music!" Archie cried, as if for battle, his fist raised. Sherlock felt like he'd stepped into a sitcom.

"Why would you listen to music in a language you don't understand?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"It makes me happy," Archie replied bluntly, wriggling in time with the music. The underlying statement was clear to Sherlock: 'Why else would you listen to something?'

It was strangely catchy, but not really Sherlock's style. Archie clicked on another video, and another, and it wasn't too bad since Sherlock was currently trying to learn the language simply by listening to it - something Mycroft had always been better at.

"Here, I'll do this one with lyrics. It's better that way," Archie explained, and this time pulled up a video with Hangul, Romanization, and English translation onscreen. Sherlock briefly wondered who had time to make videos like these. This time it was apparently a soloist instead of a band, wearing an outfit that really should _not_ have been cleared by the production department. Korea's stylists were apparently either drunk or stoned when they came up with half these outfits.

"Sometimes you need an -_ independent_ song to feel better," Archie explained.

The song was typical - 'why did you leave me, I can be better, I'm-so-jealous-of-your-new-significant-other', all the usual rubbish.

"How is this remotely independent?" Sherlock asked scathingly. More of 'I wish I could forget you, blah blah blah...'

Then there was a bit of a plot twist as the whole tempo of the song changed, and she was suddenly wearing a _glitter dress._

'I will show you a prettier me, who is way happier than you-' _Ah, there's the independent bit._ 'I'm dating a hotter guy than you...' _Wow, that's shallow._ Archie was still happily moving with the music, even singing some of the parts in his pitchy child-voice.

"You know this says horrible things about the value of women," he said drily, watching as the apparent transformation of wearing a short skirt brought men flocking to her (not unrealistic, but seriously?). Sherlock was proudly a firm believer in equality of the sexes - both genders are equally stupid.

The song was catchy, he'd give it that. And the singer was decent, if a bit flashy. The song was about erasing, forgetting... deleting. No, Sherlock wasn't bitter, nor did he want to delete John from his mind palace - he shuddered at the idea. He'd always have mind-palace-John, no matter what. John was the best thing that ever happened to him, now way he would ever consider sticking him in the Recycle Bin. The song ended, and Archie turned to Sherlock, expectant.

"This should be your jam," Archie said with certainty.

"What for?" Sherlock asked grumpily.

"It will make you less sad. You should try singing it," he urged, his face open and frank. Sherlock smirked. Actually, it sounded like a relative challenge, which was exactly what he needed right now.

"Play it again," Sherlock said, not unhappily. Archie hit the replay button, and this time Sherlock tried to sing it (he had to go an octave lower, since his voice was better suited to alto, obviously), carefully keeping his eyes on the Romanization, trying to plan his syllables a few words ahead. It was hard at first, and his filler sound was 'ja', but after the third time he thought he had a handle on it.

"Boyojulge wanjonhi dallajin na! Boyojulge hwolssin do yeppojin na!" they both sang, and Sherlock found himself smiling for some strange reason. _I've finally lost it._

"No obsido seulpeuji anha, munojijianha, boy you gotta be aware!" _My reputation is ruined. I hate my life._

But strangely, it was fun.

"Okay, check item one," Archie said in a professional tone, making an imaginary 'check' in the air.

"Number two was... encourage someone," Archie said, as he wrote down a list of the things they still needed to do.

It ran like this:

**_1. Listen to jam √_**

**_2. Encorage someone _**

**_3. Clean the house_**

**_4. Write it down_**

**_5. Exercise _**

**_6. Call up besty (probably not)_**

**_7. Dance it out _**

Sherlock smiled internally at the childish scrawl, (forgivable spelling mistakes) but didn't visibly show his amusement.

"What would make you feel really nice if someone said it to you?" Archie asked, pencil ready on a different sheet.

"'There's a large number of bodies, all with different causes of death, no sign of the killer, in a locked room,'" Sherlock answered, coming up with a rather ridiculous description of a murder case.

"Isn't that a morgue?" Archie asked, brows knitted together. Sherlock let out a puff of air and ducked his head, grinning.

"Yes, I suppose so," he answered calmly.

"So what would make you feel - nice?" Archie asked, his face a bit screwed up at the mushy term. This felt a bit silly to him, but he wanted his detective friend to feel better.

"I don't devote time to thinking about those sorts of things."

"That doesn't mean that there isn't anything," Archie explained, a bit exasperatedly. Sherlock sighed and thought about it, and all the answers were a bit sentimental, but he had to think of something. He came up with an answer, but kept it to himself.

"Now you have to tell it to someone," Archie said, and waited. Sherlock sighed, coming back to the room, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He scrolled through his contacts, which were alarmingly few, and was able to rule out most of them. He eventually picked one, and hit the 'call' button, then put the phone to his ear.

"_What do you want, Sherlock?_" Lestrade asked, sounding a bit grumpy and disheveled.

"Had a glass too many at the wedding last night?" Sherlock asked, unable to resist the temptation.

There was an indignant huff. "_I left early, remember? Your would-be murderer?_" Lestrade growled in retaliation.

"Well, you hardly missed anything. It was just a wedding," he said coldly._  
><em>

"_Again. What do you want?_" the DI asked, and Sherlock could imagine him running a hand through his short grey hair.

Sherlock felt Archie's eyes on him, and it was this alone that kept him from making another scathing remark and then hanging up.

"You - you made the right decision," Sherlock said slowly, the words sticking stubbornly to his tongue.

"Huh?" Lestrade said stupidly, obviously not appreciating the massive effort Sherlock just made, or the hidden meaning.

"Leaving early. It was the right thing to do... because we couldn't just chain him up somewhere until the party was over," Sherlock said, rather lamely.

"_...Sherlock? Are you clea-_" the DI began, sarcastic concern in his voice.

"Yes I _am_!" Sherlock practically yelled, and then hung up. Really, he might consider being nice to people more often if he didn't get mocked for it all the time.

"Check," Archie said, not missing a beat, and scratched a check mark next to item two. Sherlock sighed.

The cleaning part didn't last long, Sherlock just threw everything onto the table or under the furniture until the floor looked clean, and took all the dirty dishes to the kitchen. Archie had surveyed carefully, and after true boyish fashion, pronounced the flat acceptably clean, and added another check.

"Next is write it down," Archie explained. They had taken a break after the cleaning, where Archie ate the sandwiches Mrs. Hudson had brought up and Sherlock stared somewhat moodily at the fireplace.

"Don't want to," Sherlock said with finality. "I don't do diaries. I don't write, and therefore have the decency to refrain, unlike John," Sherlock added, with some annoyance.

"I don't like journalling either. We had to do it for school and I wrote the same thing for every day," Archie said, agreeing.

They sat in silence for a moment.

"You should write something down though," he suggested. "I like to draw when I'm angry," the boy explained, but was looking more at the floor than at Sherlock. Sherlock found himself rather enjoying the way the boy communicated, which was frank and to the point.

"I'll try," Sherlock said suddenly, getting an idea. He rose, gathered equipment, and got ready. Archie watched in relative silence, only asking the occasional question.

And he wrote.

The violin notes filled the flat, making the atmosphere swell and hum with wordless emotion. Sherlock would play, his dark brows knitting together over the powerful notes, and sometimes pause.

And write it down.

The blank staff began to fill up with all of Sherlock's thoughts, his feelings, what had happened. The violin understood him. It translated his incomprehensible emotions into an audible and understandable language. Sherlock forgot about where he was, focusing only on playing. The music was sad, at first, with bits of John and Mary's waltz mixed in. Then it changed, when he reminded himself it was simply a new chapter, new chapter - hope. He played and played, and eventually stopped, dropping the violin, feeling emotionally and physically and even mentally tired. He'd used three full sheets.

Sherlock named it 'Solitude', and then turned, and jumped a bit at the sight of the boy sitting in John's chair; he'd forgotten about him completely. Archie was asleep, apparently the music was too boring for his tastes. Sherlock didn't rouse him, merely went and made himself some tea. He didn't make tea as well as John or Mrs. Hudson could, but any tea was better than no tea. The sound of the boiling kettle woke the resident primary schooler, who walked over to Sherlock, watching as the detective poured a cup and stirred in the milk.

"You're very good," Archie said, with some admiration but a placid tone. Sherlock poured another cup (how much harm could a little caffeine do?) and handed it to the boy.

"Yeah," Sherlock replied, shrugging, and then sipped his tea.

"Let's skip the exercise one," Archie suggested, and Sherlock readily agreed. He didn't see the point of exercising for the mere sake of it.

"Then we have two more. You should talk to John, and then we need to dance," Archie explained.

Sherlock sighed. "Archie, I don't know how much you know, but people on - honeymoons - don't like to be disturbed," he said sarcastically, not looking down at the child.

"Well there must be some way. You're his best friend, and he should make you feel better if you're sad because you miss him," Archie explained, as if Sherlock were very stupid. Sherlock merely shook his head in denial.

"Although..." Sherlock said suddenly, a smile and an idea taking over him in the same moment. "There is something I've been wanting to try. And now would be the perfect time..."

Archie grinned, sensing the mischief in the air itself.

Sherlock pulled out another laptop, simply because he wasn't motivated to walk back to his room to get his other one, and opened up a blogging site, and logged in.

'Welcome, John H. Watson,' the screen said proudly, and Sherlock chuckled to himself. Archie giggled, watching the show.

As Sherlock typed, they both laughed at Sherlock's audacity. Archie's eyes had widened with Sherlock's failure to use the euphemism 'honeymoon', but hadn't commented. Sherlock was about to hit 'Publish' when he stopped, thinking. He opened his email inbox, and found the file he'd asked Lestrade to send him - the pictures Jonathan Small had taken. And yes, they were actually quite good. He ran them through a basic slideshow program, picked a nice festive background song, embedded the video, and viola!

Publish.

"He gets text alerts when people comment," Sherlock explained, almost giddy with anticipation, though externally he was much more composed. He refused to look embarrassed when his own phone trilled, showing an alert that John had posted.

It took mere minutes to get replies. There was that techie (the one who had been stalking him since even before he'd moved into Baker Street) whose name escaped him (or perhaps he had deleted it), Mike Stamford, and even John's sister Harry all replied in under ten minutes. Impressive.

They waited not five minutes before John's comment appeared.

_"STOP POSTING ON MY BLOG! AND THERE WON'T BE ANOTHER WEDDING!"_

Sherlock and Archie burst into a gale of laughter. After Sherlock composed himself, he formulated a reply. Archie giggled at Sherlock's snarky reply. _'Does your wife know you're on the Internet when you're supposed to be on your...'_ Sherlock should probably feel bad for posting such things in front of a child. He didn't.

_"Yes, yes she does."_ Mary replied before John could. Oh, this was gold of the purest kind.

At the sight of her name, however, Sherlock remembered some research he did last night before falling asleep. '_Mary. I've been doing some research and you need to avoid seafood.'_ he advised conscientiously.

_"SHERLOCK! SHUT UP NOW!"_ came Mary's reply in under a minute. "Why is everyone using caps lock today? Sherlock mumbled to himself. His phone suddenly trilled.

John.

Archie's eyes caught the name on the screen of his mobile, and grinned. "See, Mr. Holmes!" he said, thought neither of them really knew what Archie wanted Sherlock to 'see.'

_'Sherlock. Please do NOT post about my wife's pregnancy to the whole world. I don't want this child becoming part of our media circus lives.'_ The tone in the text was clear and stern, and Sherlock knew this wasn't a joke. Duly chastened, he posted another comment on the blog.

_'I've just had a text from John. I'll shut up now.'_ His phone went off again, displaying a terse '_Thank you.'_

Then Sherlock started attacking all the various boring and insipid people who sat around commenting on John's blog who seemed to have nothing better to do with their lives. Archie laughed at Sherlock's insults, and this both concerned and flattered the consulting detective at once. Soon people stopped replying to him, and he got off, not having got a response for ten minutes.

Sherlock found himself feeling a great deal better, and put the laptop away, and looked at Archie. The boy looked back, and neither of them were really uncomfortable with the silence.

"Do you feel better now, Mr. Holmes?" Archie asked.

"A bit, yeah," Sherlock replied honestly.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Hudson opened it a moment later. "Your mum is here, dear," she said kindly. Archie deflated slightly, but didn't whine, much to Sherlock's relief.

"Let's go dear," the woman herself said, standing in the doorway. Definitely spa, Sherlock noted mentally, seeing the neatly manicured nails and glowing skin.

"Can I stay, for just a couple minutes longer?" Archie asked, looking between all the adults in the room for permission. No one quickly offered a no.

"Alright," Sherlock sighed, and the mum frowned.

"He hasn't been bothering you, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, giving her son a stern look.

"Not anymore than most people tend to," Sherlock answered frankly. She didn't look overly shocked, and Sherlock assumed she was more or less used to those sorts of responses form her son.

"Five minutes. We need to get home," she said sternly to Archie, and then Mrs. Hudson took her downstairs, offering tea and mincemeat pies.

"What is it? I assume you had an express purpose in requesting to stay," Sherlock asked the boy.

"We didn't finish our list," Archie stated, holding out the list which had a check missing. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Children.

"I don't think our chosen methods of dancing overlap," Sherlock said drily, remembering the very hip-hop style of dancing in the videos shown him.

"Well it seems wrong to not finish," Archie said a bit sadly. Sherlock sighed dramatically, looking to Heaven for an answer but finding none, since he was technically looking at the ceiling.

Archie quickly put on a Korean song, and Sherlock was extremely interested to note that the title was his own name. He checked the upload date; right after he had 'died'. He knew that that event had boosted his fame more than his life ever did (except when he came back, of course) internationally, but he didn't realize the extent until now. It was clearly a detective-based video - Sherlock was more disturbed than anything.

"You've got to at least try to dance," Archie scolded. Sherlock sighed, feeling stupid. How does one even dance to this?

Archie started to dance, and was surprisingly good.

"Not bad," Sherlock commented, crossing his arms.

"Try!" Archie insisted. Sherlock huffed, but then went still, and felt the music for a moment.

Why not.

And then he danced. He spun, he laughed, he let himself have a bit of fun.

Then the door opened. Sherlock froze, and turned around slowly, mortified. The song ended, leaving the flat stiff and silent.

"Time to go, dear," Archie's mother said, who was doing a very good job of pretending she had seen nothing. "What do you say to Mr. Holmes for looking after you?" she said in a leading way.

"Thank you," Archie said to Sherlock, smiling genuinely.

"Thank you, Archie, for keeping me company," Sherlock said, a rare warmth and softness in his voice and expression. Archie was beaming like the sun as him mum ushered him out, and Sherlock mirrored his smile. The door closed, leaving Sherlock alone.

But not lonely.

He went and sat in his chair, and allowed himself to think again, but not with the same apathetic feeling as before. He was glad Archie had come, even though it had been very trying at times. He spotted the list, left on the arm of his chair - with checks on all seven items, except number five, which had been scribbled out. He folded it and put in the the pocket of his dressing gown.

He'd gotten to dance after all.

Sherlock stood to his feet and glided over to the window, and picked up his violin, fitting it to his neck with practiced precision.

"I love life," he said sarcastically to himself, and then lowered the bow to the neck, coaxing a melody out of the steel strings.

He played the tune he had written before, and then added to it. This time he let the hope blossom, into joy and security. Finally finished, he dated it, and then made one last change. He added to the title, so that it now read, 'Solitude With Friends'.

That night, he got a case, from a most illustrious client; Lady Smallwood herself.

It was a great day.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** I know Archie is probably somewhat out of character, but oh well, I needed this right now. I'm tired of people writing Sherlock positively drowning in self pity (I know I did too, but at least I took it down!) and so I wrote a slightly sad Sherlock who got cheered up. Yay! You might have noticed I took dialogue right out of the post on the official tie-in site for John's blog. Which you all need to read, by the way, if you haven't. Clowns, Ninjas, James Bond. It's gold._

_Links/Sources:_

_Seven Ways To Turn Your Day Around by Blimeycow : _you (tube) (dotcom) / / watch?v= xTXbBxPxNGc_ (watch this. Watch these people. They're probably my favorite YouTube channel of all time, for a few years now. Go. Watch. Love.)_

_John's blog: _john watson blog .co .uk

_The First Korean Song: I Will Show You by Ailee - _you (tube) (dotcom) / / watch?v= MCEcWcIww5k_ (most definitely watch the lyrics vid for this one. I got the mental image of Sherlock power singing and dancing to this song while John was on his honeymoon. I couldn't stop laughing.)_

_The Second Korean Song: Sherlock by Shinee - _you (tube) (dotcom) / / watch?v= 8kyG5tTZ1iE_ (First k-pop vid I ever watched. It was by accident, I wanted to watch a Sherlock vid. My life changed forever that day.)_  
><em>And just so you know... THIS IS MY UNIVERSE. K-POP. BLIMEYCOW. GO WATCH IT NOW.<em>

_Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!_


	5. Shut Up

_**A/N: Possible trigger: mention of rape.** _

* * *

><p>John was used Sherlock's irreverence at crime scenes. After all, it was at right after that first case that they'd giggled like idiots. Although, in their defense, it had been a stressful night and they were both tentatively allowing the ice between them to melt. And after that, they seemed to become deeply ingrained into each other, at a breathtaking rate that was simply ridiculous.<p>

It still annoyed John at times, when Sherlock would just shrug away a grieving witness or say that the victim should have thought better of trusting their spouses. There was always a surge of grief when John saw a corpse. He was no bleeding heart, and generally a stoic man, but a good one.

It had taken years for John to understand that Sherlock had compassion as well - he simply refused to express it in ways that others could understand, in favor of protecting his self-image. He'd seen a particularly vicious look in his friend's eyes when restraining a child murderer, or a subtle way of giving traumatized victims closure in a way that a therapist never could.

However, it was still a very bad habit that Sherlock had, and there was now day where John couldn't let it pass without rebuke.

"Got anything?" John asked, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. It was early morning, and a cold, damp alley was the let place he wanted to be right now. The rest of Scotland Yard looked like they agreed with him. Lestrade paced to keep warm, Sally huddled into her coat, and the pretty new recruit rubbed her arms incessantly.

"Don't rush me. It's not like she's going anywhere," Sherlock replied blithely, waving a hand at John, his eyes still combing over the uncovered corpse on the pavement with the assistance of his pocket glass.

John's eyes wandered to the girl, and felt another burst of melancholy at the sight. A young woman had been found, one in a series, all in the most bizarre way. All the victims had been found with their hands folded over their stomachs, eyes, and lips sewn shut - apparently a crude reproduction of enabling procedures. And, unfortunately, they were all unmistakably abused in a vulgar way that befell many a woman. John had seen plenty of it in Afghanistan, thanks to the Taliban (and even, unfortunately, to the less honorable of his comrades), and was even more aghast to find such an occurrence going on at home. Sherlock was excited about the (admittedly) fascinating case, and therefore a great deal less sensitive than usual.

"At least try to look like you care," John said tiredly, his eyes narrowing fractionally in a quiet glare.

"I'm not going to waste tears over someone who was so stupid as to walk down a dark alley in the middle of the night," Sherlock snarked. He had a look on his face like he was amused at his own words. John felt a proper anger spark behind his eyes.

"Shut up, Freak," Donovan growled, her eyes flashing from where she glanced his way from a group of detectives a few metres away. John normally felt upset when the female detective so immaturely started name-calling, but today he rather agreed. Sherlock noticed, with a blink, that John had not defended him at all, not with a glance or a cracking of his knuckles or a quiet reprimand.

"Oh, so you're siding with her?" Sherlock said icily, his eyes darting between the two of them.

"Actually, yes," John said casually. The Sergeant glanced at the army doctor dubiously, but didn't object. In some ways, John could respect Donovan. She continually stood up to Sherlock's general disregard for others, and he would probably admire that (stupid) bravery if she didn't fight using such puerile methods of belittlement and rebukes meant only to wound.

There was a prolonged silence, in which some oblivious detectives continued to chatter quietly, and Sherlock and John engaged in a silent battle of wits, which involved a staring contest. The Sergeant glanced between them, unsure of how to react, and cleared her throat, feeling uncomfortable. Soon afterward Sherlock looked away with an angry huff, and continued in his examination. The spell broke, and everyone went on as usual.

* * *

><p>The case was a hard one for Sherlock, who hit a dead end in his investigation multiple times, but a fortnight later they had finally set up a trap for the murderer, which they were obviously not allowed to participate in, being civilians. John, for one, was glad their part was over, since he was running on caffeine and adrenaline and nothing else at the moment.<p>

The door to the sitting room opened, letting in the pair of blogger and detective. It was the middle of the night, and their return had not wakened their good landlady, thankfully. Neither of them bothered with turning on the light, too dead-eyed for such a pointless activity. They were in their usual post-case routine - walking around full of happy endorphins from a solved case, which was the only thing keeping them awake, and then crashing and sleeping for a straight twelve hours. Poor Sherlock looked nearly catatonic, even now, since he'd been running on fumes these past couple of days, causing John to worry quietly.

"John?" Sherlock said in his usual imperious tone, making John look up. Sherlock had just hung up his coat and scarf, and John was in the process of doing the same.

"If, for some reason, something befell you, that would not make you an idiot by default," Sherlock said in a slightly lecturing tone, his expression somewhat veiled by the darkness. "Perhaps just bloody unfortunate."

John frowned. "Thank…you?" he said, too tired to understand what Sherlock was saying to him. With the detective, it cold either be code for some enormous sentiment, or some observation that was absolutely brilliant when pondered deeply, or just some random phrase that made absolutely no sense outside of his head.

Sherlock didn't reply, just walked into his room and closed the door. John shrugged, and started dragging himself up the stairs to his room, planning to sleep like the dead.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** Idk what this is. It just occurred to me and it just… happened. I was thinking about how stupid it is that people blame women for getting raped, and comparing to saying it's the victim's fault they got murdered, and realized that was exactly what Sherlock did/does, and… boom. Recipe for madness. Leave a review if you want. ;)_


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